


Beautiful Vagabonds

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Graphic, Wing!fic gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's hard to see properly because of all the down.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Vagabonds

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Sherlock and John in their current incarnation belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC.

John surveys the ugly mess of filth and thread and inflamed skin before him, automatically calculating the chances of tetanus infection and blood poisoning. A sour taste rises in the back of his throat but he swallows it down. Right now he needs to focus on the details because Sherlock will ask questions at some point, and John will need to be able to tell him everything.

Being sick in Lestrade's car will come later, on the way to the hospital, and John will apologise and Lestrade will tell him it's alright, John, bloody hell, I'd be more worried if you were just fine after seeing that.

That.

That is expert stitches, meticulously neat, done with thick black thread usually reserved for closing up after an autopsy. They are approximately one quarter of an inch apart but it's hard to see properly because of all the down, and at the moment John is too much in shock to even think about touching.

That is the smell of several gases released by organic matter as it rots. The stench rises from the bare earth floor of the cramped cellar, and John fervently hopes that it's coming off the tattered remains and not the pale, dirt-streaked figure that draws a raspy breath only every five seconds.

That is the wings of a great blue heron stitched onto human scapulae.

John will get over his shock and carefully check if he can do anything before the paramedics arrive. He will notice that the other humerus is broken clean in the middle and wonder if it happened during a struggle.

The wings have been spread out like a blanket made of charcoal grey feathers, the ends of which have been dipped into the summer sky at midnight. John thinks that if they were real, he might call them beautiful, but when he closes his eyes he can smell the decay under the frayed feathers and hear the laboured breathing. There is no beauty in any of it, not even in the neat rows of stitches.

He kneels on the dirty floor to tell Sherlock that help is on the way.


End file.
